


New Vocations

by BritaniaVance



Category: Dragon Age, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Drabble, F/M, Fluff, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-22
Updated: 2015-04-12
Packaged: 2018-03-02 19:31:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2823500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BritaniaVance/pseuds/BritaniaVance
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the wake of withdrawing from the Templar Order, Commander Cullen has found life after leaving to be full of uncertainties, and though his dedication to the Inquisition is steadfast, it is not until he finds the miraculously undead Herald upon the mountainside that he finally finds hope and settles more comfortably into his new title as Commander of the Inquisition.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. New Vocations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the wake of withdrawing from the Templar Order, Commander Cullen has found life after leaving to be full of uncertainties, and though his dedication to the Inquisition is steadfast, it is not until he finds the miraculously undead Herald upon the mountainside that he finally finds hope as well.

It was a small thing, at first.

Cullen first blamed his wandering wonderings to his mind’s need to fixate on something other than his shaking limbs when he didn’t move them, the temporary seize his muscles experienced in relapse, those tiny spasms of pain. And yet… these thoughts – these new, fluttering and unfamiliar thoughts – kept the worst of it at bay. Even before sleep. And after, and…

Like most things, Cullen attributed these fleeting thoughts to _nothing_ , blaming them simply on _not enough dedication_ , prescribing longer training sessions alone in the morning, though these sessions soon included _her_ as well.

Back at Haven, Emeria Trevelyan, supposed Herald of Andraste, would meet with the Commander every other morning for training, a regular ritual which was originally supposed to last but a single day. The Herald had implored Cullen to judge her skill and place her somewhere in his ranks to train between inquisition dealings and other business. The Lady of House Trevelyan, though a skilled archer, claimed no experience in combat and wished - given her recent vocation – to earn her title.  He had smiled at that, one of his genuine, pleasantly-surprised half-smiles. Cullen liked hearing enthusiastic recruits devote themselves to their cause, and hearing it from the mouth of the Herald herself, well, if she _was_ sent by Andraste it was surely an honor.

 _An honor indeed_.

Emeria had turned a coy smirk on him in response, equally pleased, and she began to compliment his skill, regaling the worth of his judgment before he even gave her a verdict, before he even saw her fight. He had watched her tease tidbits of gossip from Josephine and attempt to coax a smile out of Cassandra, but it was in this moment that he realized just how charming she really was. The moment passed and Cullen forgot, his mind returning to aching hands and haunted thoughts, before seeing her again the following morning…

She was all energy and excitement and eagerness. It was hard not to smile watching her, and it was hard masking every impressed smirk that sought to possess his mouth, wiping them away with his hand he brushed the sweat from his brow. Emeria wanted to transcend her name as much as she wanted to shirk it. She wanted to be one of the many and yet she wanted to own up to what she was bid to do by the Maker, or so he had been led to believe. She was tireless and unrelenting, and yet between lessons and sparring, she liked making the Commander blush, which he found he liked more than he was wont to.

But Emeria was still some unknown; she was an indiscernible mystery that acted equally as a beacon of hope for the world as well as a distraction from what more personal pains ailed him.

Despite the mark on her hand and its unknown origin, Cullen found himself seeking clues about who the Herald was beyond the inquisition between the sparring matches that had come to define their mornings. Haven was cold enough on its own, and the two of them convinced each other that it was best to begin training as soon as possible before succumbing to the chill. Being born in Ferelden, the cold was comforting to Cullen, but he found himself pretending for Emeria's sake. Her golden skin spoke of the Free Marches. Unlike Kirkwall, the lands of her House boasted of olive groves and orchards in lieu of sad, sandy shores and forsaken caves caked with dust and dirt. He caught glimpses of her childhood home amidst parries and counterattacks, and of course well-placed questions of his own to distract from her tantalizing teases, innocent though nonetheless unnerving. And though he knew she was just being friendly, he found himself yearning for more answers, keen on painting a fuller picture, one outside of the inquisition and one that did not involve holes in the sky.

He would watch her at the makeshift war table, all but forgetting the insistent electricity that sometimes afflicted his nerves. As he would steady himself on the table, he also found himself intent on her choice of words when questioning operations, gleaning what he could of her strengths, discerning her capability by the inquisition's side.  But his curiosity was not all business. He found himself glancing at her, sidelong, at mealtimes to detract from his other hungers, taking interest in her conversation and hanging on every word, noting which ales she preferred, learning that she in fact liked wine most of all, the sweeter the better, and that her demeanor was all the sweeter with every sip she had. 

He felt guilty at first, discouraging such thoughts when he caught them, but the pain began to subside only _after_ Haven, but not for what was lost there, but perhaps what he… _found._

Cullen had watched with the survivors, he had stayed a moment on the pass to watch the snow and rock fill the sky solid. In that moment, he remembered witnessing the Herald, _Emeria_ , as she swore her life for all of theirs only moments before. There was a fire in her eyes Cullen was not entirely sure he had ever seen. The Warden had met him with a pleading gaze, eager for answers and impatient to atone for the lives strewn about the tower. The Champion had always met him with eyes of ice, her blue eyes tired and tormented, but beleaguered with purpose and unspoken responsibility. He never told Hawke, but he had seen some of himself in her resolve, something uncertain beneath all that was strong and unyielding.

But the Herald was absolutely certain. She looked to all of those in the Chantry hall, her eyes sweeping over the mass of them, frightened and frantic, hurt and near dying, and with each pair of eyes she met – finally resting on Cullen – she gathered what hope was left in the room and took it for herself, not as a token of greed but one of burden, as if the thing could not be shouldered by the survivors any longer. They needed to be relieved of their worry so they were free to enter the mountain pass and make it out alive. She took what remained of their strength with her and met the monster under the mountain to meet most certain death, to meet whatever unholy creature had ordained her with this mysterious gift and hopefully save them all…

And though most of their hopes were fast buried beneath the rubble, hope was found again when he spotted her in the snow, a staggering creature possessed with survival to find heat, to find food, to _live_.

She clung to him, her limbs succumbing to the sweet numbness of sleep, but he gathered her face in his hands and promised to keep her warm if she stayed awake a little longer, the apostate Solas insisting at his side with his staff aloft. Emeria’s dark, doe eyes were cast in the ghostly blue of Solas’ light as she registered who it was that was shaking her awake. A smile crept over her lips and life leapt back into her drowsy features as her clammy hands clutched at his fur pauldrons, too weak to muster more words. He coaxed her into his arms, cradling her cool body and holding it against the warmth of his own as the search party returned to camp.

Cullen had wrapped her in his outer tunic, tucking her in as best he could, keeping his head low so his breath could keep her warm.

His warmth tickled her face, her nose twitched as it thawed, easing a pleasant whimper from her throat. He smiled, laughing as she clung to his neck, her hands ice on his skin.

“Have I gone to heaven?” she asked, dazed, her voice slight and sinewy, still sleepy and broken.

Cullen cocked his head, out of breath and unable to answer and he was not sure if Emeria was apt enough to register facial subtleties just yet.

“Good thing Coryph-coyrphen- good thing that _monster_ didn’t make it here, I’ll tell you,”

She sounded almost drunk, but sweeter, her voice gathering strength from the warmth of his breath on her face. Cullen readjusted her body against his as they traversed a series of boulders on the edge of a clearing, Solas guiding his path all the way.

“I didn’t expect heaven to be so… _cold_ ,” Emeria spoke again, her head poking above Cullen’s neck briefly to catch a view of the mountain behind them.

“What makes you say you’re in heaven?” Cullen asked with a charmed laugh once he gathered his breath, knowing Emeria would likely not remember any of this come morning.

The Herald smiled, gazing up at him dreamily, her eyes still heavy with sleep, not entirely recovered from shock. “Because the handsomest man in all of Thedas is carrying me all wedding-like, and _Maker_ we’re even close enough to _kiss_ ,”

Cullen could feel a wave of scarlet heat take hold of him, but smiled nervously despite it. The Commander glanced at Solas who made no inclination to having heard, and looked back at Emeria who was now nuzzling into his neck, hungry for heat, and he _certainly_ had enough for the both of them _._

Something in his stomach fluttered at the sight of her now. Careful to watch where he was going, he held her tighter to him, fixing his tunic around her limbs where he saw she was still shivering.

“You’re certain this isn’t the Fade?” she asked, hardly a whisper now, “Because if you were a spirit you might be… Strong, or Sure. I don’t know,” Emeria yawned and looked up at him with a nodding gaze, “Ask Solas,”

“Yes?” the elf paused ahead, swiveling to meet Cullen who only looked at him, startled. Having only caught wind of his name, or not keen on answering Emeria’s delirious question, he said nothing of it and only nodded.

“It’s the shock,” Solas assured, a firm hand meeting Cullen’s upper arm with brief assurance before looking forward and moving on.

The camp was nearby. The hum of muted, tired distress was on the wind along with the scents of burning wood and incense for the dead.

 _The dead_.

Something in the Commander ached and the dull pain of withdrawal hummed in the back of his mind like white noise, always there. But his hands were steady, they had purpose. Emeria was certainly strong, _stronger than a bloody mountain_ , and yet now she needed him and he would serve. Whatever happened after, he would serve her. She was weak now, a trembling thing cradled in his arms, but if a mountain could not stop her, then what would? If there was any sign that Cullen had made the right choice leaving his intended vocation, this was it. She was it, and here she was.“You’re not dead,” Cullen told her, his voice soft, low enough that Solas could not take notice of, “And I’m certainly glad you’re still here.”

_"You’re not dead,” Cullen told her, his voice soft, low enough that Solas could not take notice of, “And I’m certainly glad you’re still here.”_

Emeria hummed pleasantly, “ _Mmm_ , good.”

He could feel her breathing even out against his chest as she finally fell into a safer sleep.

Soon, the others were upon them. Those who had stayed bombarded them with questions but Solas had the wherewithal to bid them quiet as they secured a spot to lay the Herald to rest. Cullen’s voice was lost as he registered the words he had just spoken to the Herald, how it was not uncommon for him to feel the same about any other recruit and just how much he already mourned for those that would never make it, and yet something about her was different.

Mother Gisele led him to a raised cot, one of the few that was not too worn and not currently being used, where Cullen finally laid Emeria down. With his back to the Mother, he took a moment to gaze upon Emeria’s face as he took in the scent of her, that brittle freshness of snow, the smell of that crisp crunch when you take the first step into an untouched patch of powder. He wondered what she might have otherwise reminded him of. Leliana always smelled vaguely of wildflowers and Josephine like fresh parchment, no wonder. Was Emeria more of the fresh leather type? New gloves and a grip for the holding, already fitted to her bow? Or was she heavy with the savory scent of oils or honey?

Mother Gisele’s gentle hand broke him from his reverie, relieving him. He stepped aside to join those still awake by the fire and await the remaining search parties. One of his hands adjusted his tunic, already plagued with tremors. The other found its way to the back of his neck, suddenly too light without Emeria's weight in it, held aloft in a palm that would otherwise ache. He glanced back toward her, but only found the figure of Mother Gisele hunched over the Herald, assessing her wounds no doubt.

Cullen smiled shyly, to no one, and found himself thinking of Emeria before sleep that night, and every night since.


	2. With Purpose

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If Cullen found his hope on the mountainside, the (sort of) regrettably privileged and inexperienced Emeria Trevelyan found hers in the loyal followers - some more than others - who granted her the title of Inquisitor, even if she isn't so sure of her new appointment herself...

She felt strange, all uncertain and unsure underneath her skin having barely escaped death. Despite her increasing unease Emeria was granted a shiny new title for naively insulting an undead magister and his pet dragon, _to his face_ no less, and surviving the weight of a mountain and a fistful of wrath.

Emeria felt fine, otherwise, but the guilt unnerved her still.

All eyes were on her, watchful, waiting.  And instead her eyes were cast downward, warily watching her hand, all aglow and up to something…

She stood in the Skyhold courtyard in a shadowed corner beneath one of the many broken battlements, turning her left hand over in what darkness could be found in the daytime, her golden skin glowing that sickly green the Maker must believe matched her eyes, or something.

From the corner of her eye, she watched the others. They had congratulated her, thanked her for their lives. Many of them clasped her surprised hands in their grateful ones as they pledged themselves to her in the wake of what happened at Haven, insisting that she was surely the Maker’s chosen and oh, so worthy of the title of Inquisitor.

As much as she swelled at the thought, at the honor, she shrunk inside at the news. _Another one._

_Trevelyan_ was a beautiful name, but one she still associated with ignorant privilege and pompous poise. Arriving at Haven was a rude awakening. The world outside of her Ostwick estate was a little too real and a little too full of death. In all her twenty seven years, she had only survived several aging relatives and taken down great bears in the annual hunt, but nothing like this.

The letters had poured in once the Conclave was announced, requesting representatives. Since her father’s passing, Emeria had taken over perusing the estate’s letters since her delicate mother “could not be bothered”. Every letter reeked of practiced grief, each one mourned Bann Trevelyan’s recent passing and how they had all expected him to represent the family at the Conclave “ _and, Oh Maker, what now_?”. Their apologies were full of purple prose and empty excuses – “ _I would go myself, but you know how things are…”_ \- but the ones signed by Trevelyans long forgotten were the ones that drew her eye and tore her heart apart – her raw, untouched, spoiled heart. _Madelyn_ was a name she had barely remembered before reading it at the bottom of a letter addressed _Dear Sweet Sister_ – and suddenly a memory from a world away came rushing back to her as if as if she had been made to forget. She had been.

Her mother had forbid they speak of her, that it would be best if they all just forgot, especially her youngest daughter. It was always best to mask a broken heart with a pristine appearance and a clean family record.

_Oh, mother most holy…_

That was when Emeria knew she would take up the call. She would ride to the Conclave and defy what the Trevelyans may have otherwise fought against. _Mage freedom_. But she was foolish. She was naïve and untouched by the world. She had only ghost stories and rumors to keep her head afloat, so she gathered her things and left the family home forever – all the while her family thinking she was to vote in their pious favor.

But she knew so little. She knew not of the mage’s plight, of the elf servants milling about the Ostwick square only peppered with a few lowly humans with dirt lacing their skirts, of anyone who worked outside the Chantry – until the pilgrimage. She sat and listened when they would stop along the road, realizing that some mages preferred the Circle and that some Chantry folk were humbler than her pompous, favor-grubbing cousins. There was so much more to the world than she knew, and despite her guilt she still felt cheated out of ever having living.

Despite the turmoil of the road, the uncertainty of the caravans, travelers and interlopers, she realized that she had never quite looked at the sky before, and something in that notion made her feel aching and cold, but thrilled to be alive in the world amid its dangers. The air felt fresher, her lungs yearning for more on the mountain paths, and she felt like a newborn child again, fresh, new and unendingly curious.

Just when Emeria thought she was getting a grasp on the world with eager fingers and ravenous palms, an evil most foul decimated the Conclave and fed her hungry hands with a power no one quite understood. And yet the thing she understood the least was – _Why me?_

Then, her mother wrote her.

Or, to be more accurate, her mother dictated her thoughts to a blessedly patient servant to write with a practiced hand _for_ her and signed her Lady’s name at the bottom. She would repeat this process several times. More like _forty-five times_ … at least.

Josephine was delighted to deliver the first letter, her eyes aglitter, expecting Emeria to light up at the sight of her mother’s name. Instead Emeria’s eyes had widened, dread building in her belly, before she burst out laughing.

Mass death and destruction will make anyone forget about one’s less-than-savory relatives, but upon recalling that her mother was, unfortunately, _not_ killed when the sky exploded and spewed demons out of the veil, Emeria _did_ recall that her mother’s eminently devout reputation required that the woman practically, and quite literally, worship the ground she walked on. Every letter was addressed to Emeria in a way that her mother would have otherwise never spoken to her – with reverence, respect and demanding salvation with the most dramatic of overtures one could think of.

Josephine watched her Lady Herald with careful amusement, unsure of whether the she was happy or had chosen this precise moment to go insane.

Since then, however, Emeria had ignored every letter stamped with the woman’s name - though she noticed that Dorian took to reading her letters and occasionally wrote back, writing as Emeria, with a flowery flurry of nonsense (that had her in fits) in repayment for accompanying him to see his father. Aside from playing with the woman’s devotion to _appearing_ devoted to the Maker, Emeria did all in her power _not_ to rip her title and estate holdings out from under her.

But with this newfound purpose, and with the added title of Inquisitor, she promised herself that she would not resort to petty feuds borne of the past. Emeria would use whatever power that now plagued her hand to right the world she was only just becoming acquainted with, and those around her would help her lead in a way the estate-ruling Trevelyans never could.

Looking around at her makeshift family now, despite their tired eyes and tireless limbs, her uncertainty ebbed, making room for pride, for purpose.

There were new faces every day, and Emeria was glad that none of them seemed to remember her as _Bann’s girl, the one that made such as scene at the Summer Ball_ which had been her most recent title before leaving Ostwick. Thankful that all of her least favorite Trevelyans had not decided to show up and criticize Skyhold’s trappings, she admired those that milled about her – happy, too, that her no-longer-forgotten sister Madelyn was among them.

It had only been a few days, but Emeria’s favorite haunt fast became the shadowed arch above the crooked steps that connected the fortress’ outer courtyards. This may have been attributed to her newfound love for sprawling ivy – something completely alien to Ostwick but absolutely abundant in Ferelden and Orlais – or it may have been the hidden view she had of the Commander at his makeshift desk just at the bottom of the stairs.

The way the man had blushed when he found that she had finally awoke on the mountain made her believe that she had said something embarrassing, self revealing, or perhaps an unfortunate combination of both. Emeria hardly remembered anything after Haven except for miles and miles of _cold._ Even recalling that lost span of time felt long and arduous, but somewhere at the end of it there was warmth, there was safety, there was _Cullen._

Her first waking moments were spent under Solas’ healing hands. The elf had not meant to wake her, and apologized in his usual low, lyrical tone. She smiled, soothed by his words despite the guilt hidden between his syllables, asking that he regale her of how the _bloody hell_ she made it out of Haven alive. Solas smiled, revealing that he knew not of how she escaped but that he and Commander had found her wandering the mountain pass in a frozen stupor, but that it was Cullen who carried her back to camp. A flash of memory jarred her thought. Though it was brief and fleeting, a feeling remained; a feeling of sound security, of strong arms and the heat of hopeful breath despite the bitter cold.

She hadn’t the chance to talk to the Commander since then, and despite wondering what it was that she might have said to set his ears and his face to blushing, she knew she had to talk to him, to _thank_ him, formally.

Emeria turned her hand over in the coolness of the shadow and finally let it fall back at her side. Though her head was still lowered in thought, her gaze flicked to the corner of her eye, down the stairs at the Commander. He was hunched over, hands firmly planted on either side of a pile of already amassed reports and blueprints of the fortress. She watched as one hand relieved itself and ascended to his neck to scratch it. Emeria smiled.

Biting her lip, she stood up straight, reminding herself that she was an Inquisitor now and that gave her the right to be inquisitive about things, like Cullen’s wellbeing for instance.

She was not used to feeling nervous, especially in front of someone other than her mother, but Cullen inspired some _nice_ kind of nervousness that set her skin to trembling and lit her bones with restless energy. Emeria breathed as evenly as her body would allow, tempering her limbs as she descended the stairs.

Several scouts seemed to sprout out of nowhere as she neared him, all eager and at attention. Cullen looked up, assuming his usual stance: back straight, one hand at his hilt while the other remained free to dole out orders.

“We need to scout the area; we need to know what’s out there.”

Emeria slowed her steps as some of the Commander’s recruits beat their fists on their chests, promising “Yes, sir,” in unison before retreating. The one that remained spoke as she neared him, though her footfalls were careful now, the nervousness swelling within her with every step.

“Commander, the soldiers have been given temporary quarters,” he declared, a sheet of parchment held at attention at his chest.

“Very good, I’ll need an update on the armory as well,” Cullen replied, catching sight of Emeria’s approach as he finished his sentence. Some alien desire sprung up within her to flee, to hope he hadn’t noticed, but she laughed internally at the thought, biting her lip instead as she bridged the gap between them.

Cullen’s face was stern only a moment before but had softened at the sight of her. The man did not blush this time, _Thank the Maker_ , but the sudden change in his countenance thrilled some inner part of her. The soldier at his side had yet to leave and was still scribbling at his report. The Commander cleared his throat with purpose, though his attention remained fixed on Emeria.

Startled, the soldier looked up, his eyes darting between Emeria and the Commander before scurrying away.

“Already hard at work, I see,” she broke the ice, her body language mirroring his. She held her shoulders square, rapt at attention, her hands clasped behind her back, trying her new title on for size but finding it still had a few kinks. Despite her stance, a laugh tainted her words as she spoke them and the Commander suddenly looked sorry, as if he owed her some apology.

“We set up as best we could at Haven,” his voice dropped its official tone and took on one of regret, “but we could never prepare for an Archdemon, or, whatever it was.” A smile crept over her features as the Commander apologized, his hand ascending to his neck again as if fishing for an acceptable answer – unaware that she had come to _thank_ him, not demand an excuse or a report, “With some warning we might have-“

Cullen stopped, his wide eyes catching a glimpse of Emeria’s expression.

“Do you ever sleep?” She asked as the same laugh crept into her response. Thankfully, Cullen knew she was not laughing at him but perhaps pleased with his fervor. His mouth eased into a momentary smile before continuing, assuming the usual tone he kept with his men.

“If Corypheus strikes again, we will not be able to withdraw. I wouldn’t want to. We must be ready.” The man did not seem to know what to do with himself, still overwhelmed with what happened and what tasks still lie ahead. Emeria could feel the smile fade instantly from her face, forgetting the Commander’s keen interest in apologizing and realizing just how many of _his_ men were lost in the destruction. Cullen resumed his position at the desk, hands planted firmly as his eyes scanned reports before picking one up and continuing, “Work on Skyhold is underway. Guard rotations established – we should have everything on course within the week. We will not run from here Inquisitor.”

“How many were lost?” she asked, her voice finally matching her posture. _Of course the Commander doesn’t sleep_ , she thought as guilt crept over her once more, stifling her smile, _not with what befell Haven, you big **idiot**_ **.**

The Commander inhaled, held it for a moment as he let his words steep, and breathed evenly as he replied, “Most of our people made it to Skyhold, it could have been worse.” Cullen replaced the blueprint in his hand and pushed himself away from the table, turning to meet Emeria in full. “Morale was low, but it’s improved greatly since you accepted the title of Inquisitor.”

Despite the trace disappointment in his voice at the unspoken number of the lost, though she was sure he felt it regardless of the statistics involved, his eyes glimmered as he registered her and her square shoulders, her stance firmly planted, just as he taught her.

“Ah yes, _Inquisitor Trevelyan_. I wasn’t _looking_ for another title,” and as usual, another charming, self deprecating joke came to rescue her from making a fool of herself in the Commander’s (seemingly proud) presence, “It sounds odd, don’t you think?”

“Not at all,” the man responded, almost too quickly.

“Is that the _official_ response?” she laughed more appropriately this time, her brows rising at his certainty. The Commander softened, allowing himself to laugh, and Emeria liked that he did. Whatever guilt plagued her earlier, even moments before, began to drain from her again as something sweeter settled in its stead.

“I supposed it is,” Cullen replied, his mirth lacing his response, “But it’s the truth. We needed a leader, and you have proven yourself.”

Even though his voice and his eyes held traces of his good humor, Cullen’s tone dropped, and she could tell he was entirely earnest. Her gaze fell to her shuffling feet, hiding a sudden blush that crept up her cheeks, something any of her siblings would have made fun of her for weeks had they seen. But they did not, and Emeria’s innocent bashful tendencies would remain between her and the Commander… for now.

“I really couldn’t have done it without you - without _all_ of you,” she corrected herself, soon realizing this was indeed a moment she _did_ want to single him out. Mentally shaking her head, she continued, ensuring her words were even keeled and precise this time. “Without _your_ help, Commander, I don’t think any of this could be possible.”

It was Cullen’s turn to hide his countenance. He dropped his gaze for only a moment before glancing back up at Emeria with a timid, but appreciative smile. The man bit his lip before it could take over his face as he straightened up, his hands unsure of where to place themselves at his hilt.

“I thank you, _Inquisitor Trevelyan,_ ” he joked, mild but sincere, bowing his head in the slightest. Emeria smiled, always pleased to find the Commander easy around her.

“Inquisitor _Emeria,_ if you please,” she insisted.

Cullen immediately obliged by saying her name “ _Emeria_ ,” softly, insistently. Her face grew hot, her breath lost for a moment and bereft of words.

In an instant, Emeria recalled what she believed were her final thoughts in Haven. Amidst lamenting her useless existence before the Conclave, Cullen’s adamant words haunted her steps as she approached Corypheus and his ancient pet. The Commander’s wide eyed surprise and the flush of pride and admiration that followed stuck in her mind… and in that final look there was some hint of regret – perhaps not the regret he expected to feel at losing a recruit, but something more. Emeria was only sure of this in so far as if it were true, she had felt the same.

Without thinking, seemingly bewitched by the Commander’s unexpected charm, Emeria confessed, “Our escape from Haven… it was close. I’m relieved that you – that _so many_ – made it out.”

“As am I,” he replied, and as if in response to her thoughts, the Commander resumed the look he had when he had last seen her out the door of the Haven chantry, as if he, too, were reliving those final moments and was utterly relieved that they were not final after all. “You stayed behind,” his voice was low and almost as soft as a whisper as he placed a careful hand at her shoulder, “You could have-“

Cullen’s hand lingered as his gaze held her attention a moment longer than he had intended, as he soon stopped himself as if snapping out of a reverie, pulling away as if he never meant to go beyond his station by touching her, but instead of voicing the apology that formed on his lips he said, “I will not allow the events at Haven to happen again.” Even though his hand had retracted, Emeria could still feel the brief warmth of his touch at her shoulder, his earnest relief at her survival, and the fact that he cared enough to forego decorum. Despite the formal breach, Cullen’s eyes were still fixed on hers, intense with intent, “You have my word.”

The Commander bowed his head as she took her leave. Emeria returned the gesture as a cluster of soldiers and agents approached. Even as the small crowd amassed, Cullen did not take his eyes off of Emeria until she did the same, hiding an uncertain smile when she finally did.

Before disappearing entirely into the adjacent courtyard, Emeria hazarded a backward glance. As if in sync, Cullen’s eyes lifted and locked on hers just as her gaze fell on him, as a new set of recruits circled about him eager for work, to be of use to the Inquisition. He smiled shyly and nodded once more

She glanced at her hand before returning her attention to the ramparts, to the sky – undeniably brilliant and painfully blue -, to the sprawling ivy that climbed the crumbled walls and snaked its way about those that worked to reverse the damage of time. Emeria still felt unsure, but somehow knew what to do with it now. Her hand would no longer be a token of burden, but a token of promise, of purpose.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Decided I might continue this and wrote a similar piece but from the Inquisitor's perspective. I might change it in the future, as it ended up being head canon heavy but I figured I might post it all the same just so that this little "beginnings" piece felt complete. Thanks! ;)


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